A child named Michel
plays in the middle of the street
He cuts my childhood in two
Lined by identical brown cottages.
Michel is now unlucky,
Sitting in a body bag
In a basement
Blood still pumping from his
Surgical defibrillator
Now Michel will live forever
Perhaps until the flying cars and until pigs make
Their vertical descent to both heaven and hell.
Now the house is a quiet house,
I only realize how loud Michel was,
Once he stopped altogether.
His parents sleep heavy,
Like their lives are over,
They are dead, dead, dead inside.
And so I smell the death
Which perfumes their shared residence,
In my guilty conscience,
I am glad that Michel is where he belongs.
Dead.
Michels parents preferred a way of life,
Where you just know that Michel had to know
his chance at death were plenty.
Michels parents took him up to the attic,
Where Michels father would **** him,
And mom would take pictures
Watching quietly.
I know this because our windows are parallel,
Because I saw Michel
Pale face across the middle of the floor,
Pleading, why won’t they **** me?